Malice in Wonderland
by ADifferentKindOfFear
Summary: Sometimes it's better not to remember.


**Name of OS: Malice in Wonderland**

**"Entry for the A Different Kind of Fear contest"**

**Summary: Sometimes it's better not to remember.**

**Pairing: Alice**

**Word Count: 2791**

**Rating: The fic is rated M for some fairly disturbing images.**

**Disclaimer: SM owns post-asylum Alice and Lewis Carroll owned Alice in Wonderland. I just added them together and yes, I may be just a little twisted. Just a little.**

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**Malice in Wonderland **

_Lizzie Borden took an ax, gave her father forty whacks. When she saw what she had done she gave her father forty one._

When she was a young child, hardly more than a toddler, she killed the White Rabbit. It was the first time she held the power of life and death, but she knew, _she knew, _it had to be done.

For the most part, she gave herself good advice, whether or not she listened. Often she even pretended she was more than just one person.

Perhaps, even then, she was. Little did she know, that with the completely justified death of the White Rabbit, she would be.

The White Rabbit, a young thug of a boy cut through her yard, late for Sunday church, as always. When he paused, just long enough to pull the pocket-watch from his waistcoat, she made her move.

Ever so quietly, she had tip-toed through the backyard to grab a rusty hatchet from her father's tool-shed. Staring intently at the blade that her Papa's hands had held and used and kept it as sharp as his wit, she sneaked up behind the White Rabbit and sliced it through. A clean cut.

Papa would be so proud.

She watched, mesmerized, enthralled, as the Rabbit's insides and blood ran out, staining the winter-white snow the most lovely shade of red.

She bathed her body in them. Draped the intestines around her neck and danced among the pine trees, the hatchet in one hand, blood dripping down the other. They all would be part of her forever.

She was only six years old at the time.

To be sure, the church had taught her killing was wrong. But her six year old mind reasoned, quite rightly in her own opinion, that it deserved it: Papa always says that time is money and one should never be late.

Ever so quickly, or as quickly as a six year old can manage, she pulled the pieces of the White Rabbit to the icy creek in the woods near the barn and watched it float downstream. Jumping in next, she washed herself, the water burning her with it's ice and ran home, the hatchet safely hidden in a large knot in her favorite wayward pine. It belonged to her now. Perhaps, it always had.

And she would need it again, very soon.

She spent the next weeks in bed, recovering from hypothermia, being lectured about playing too close to the river and hiding her smile every time a whisper of the White Rabbit's disappearance would reach her tiny ears.

It was near spring when she was finally proclaimed well (to which the White Rabbit snorted) and the ice and snow had begun to melt, revealing small patches of green across the Massachusetts' ground.

No one knew it was the Caterpillar's turn to face her justice.

It was a short, stout boy of about fourteen, sitting near the river smoking. It's eyes were red and he spoke to Alice lackadaisically.

"Whoooo are you?" He drawled out, taking a long drag from a rolled cigarette that Alice thought smelled a bit queer.

She approached it, feigning caution. She had the upper-hand and the White Rabbit's voice chanted for it's blood.

"I hardly know, sir," she replied shyly, inching closer and closer, the hatchet yearning to break free from it's bound place behind her back.

It looked at her quizzically, before turning back to watch the river. As if she was of no consequence. As if she was deemed not important enough.

She would show it just how significant she was.

When she was quite sure it's attention was elsewhere, she slipped out of her Sunday best (she learned the first time how difficult blood was to get out) and made her way behind the Caterpillar.

Surely this would satisfy her need for blood. At least, temporarily.

Pulling the hatchet out, she made one quick swipe across it's neck. The blood poured out in buckets, spraying across Alice's face.

She relished it.

It looked at her with half dead eyes, a silent question.

"I am important," she firmly told it as it's life drained away.

But she wasn't finished yet. She wanted more. She needed it. She started with it's feet. Chopping and cutting through muscle and sinew and bone. It was hard work, but as the White Rabbit reminded her, well worth it.

Once the extremities were taken care of, Alice had one more requirement. A curiosity and as there were no cats here, she reasoned, there was no danger.

You see, she _needed _its heart. She cut and tore and dug it out with her bare hands, holding it gently. She owned it now.

She held it high and let the remaining blood drip onto her face.

It was magnificent. She must have stood there for hours, holding it's heart, its life force, covered in blood.

This is the way it should always be, she thought.

"Blood makes everything better," the White Rabbit admitted.

But unfortunately, with the sun beginning to set, the time had come for Alice to make her way home. She threw the Caterpillar's body parts into the river, watching them float away as she had the Rabbit's. She wanted to save the heart, the heart that once beat, the heart that deemed her unimportant, but the White Rabbit reminded her that such a thing would be unwise, so instead of tossing it into the river, she buried it beneath the wayward pine that held her beloved Papa's hatchet. Her hatchet.

Washing up and changing back into her clothes, Alice skipped home quite happily. Another good deed done.

The news of yet another disappearance plagued the small town. And while each whisper brought her a certain amount of joy, it also meant she would need to wait to feel the thick, warm stickiness against her skin again. And oh, how she craved it.

But Alice was a patient child, for Papa had always taught her that good things come to those that wait.

Spring turned to summer which brought with it another birthday celebration. The Queen baked a cake and the King gave her a new dolly.

A dolly. She wanted to roll her eyes and beg for blood, but instead she hugged her Papa tightly and retreated into her woods.

As it turns out, the dolly proved to be useful. She removed the hatchet from it's hiding place and used the inanimate dolly for practice, imagining the blood made from each cut, the lifeless eyes, the beauty of it all.

It was nearly nine months later when the whispers ceased and it was safe again.

It was near spring when the Cheshire Cat crossed her path, the voices had become incredibly, and unbearably loud. It was all poor Alice could do to drown them out and even then, they demanded one thing and one thing only.

Blood.

The Cat, a dumpy little girl who was often invisible and always grinning. Honestly! Alice thought. What reason does it have to grin so?

"She knows," proclaimed the Caterpillar.

Well, that's just not possible, thought Alice. But the stupid Cat kept grinning and disappearing and grinning again.

"I like your smile."

"Thank you."

"I have a secret hiding place just over there. Would you like to see it?"

The Cat grinned and nodded and followed Alice through the trees to the wayward pine.

"What happened to your dolly?" It asked as it looked upon the remains of the ugly

"It turned into a pig." Alice shrugged. Adding silently that the Cat would know soon enough.

The Cat nodded sagely. "I thought that it would."

When the Cheshire Cat noticed the bloody hatchet, Alice saw the fear flicker in it's eyes.

She liked it.

"Oh don't worry about that," she told it. "You'll hardly feel a thing. Just ask dolly."

The Cat's grin disappeared and she tried to run. But it was no use. Alice had planned for this.

"The killing blow first," the Caterpillar reminded her.

"I know, I know." She silenced him.

"Y-Y-You know what?" Stuttered the Cat.

"This," she calmly stated as she swung the hatchet across it's throat. Watching the blood flow so profusely gave Alice a thought. She had seen and wore and danced among the red liquid. But she had never tasted it.

Did she want to?

Of course she did. She primly sat next to the Cheshire Cat, it's grin now completely gone and drank greedily from it's open neck wound. The blood was warm and rusty and delightful. But she had other work to do.

And unfortunately, not enough time for she was so enjoying herself, she did not hear the footsteps that made the way to her lair.

"What the hell is going on here Alice Ester Borden?" Papa screeched.

Alice looked up, mouth stained in red, thoroughly unprepared for such a confrontation.

Mama was horrified. "Explain yourself this minute, Alice!"

But her words fell on deaf ears. With Mama, it was always sentence first, verdict later. Besides, whatever could she say...

"I can't explain myself, because I am not myself." The Rabbit said, coming to her defense.

"We're all mad here," the Caterpillar reminded her.

Shut up, Alice thought.

Her Papa, who should've been so proud, handed his perfect little Lizzie to Mama, took the Caterpillar from her, tossing it into the river just as Alice had done with the others.

"You are no longer our daughter," Papa whispered as he turned his back.

They sent her to live with the Brandon's, or as Alice called them, the Mad Hatter, March Hare and Dormouse. They changed her name, cut off her brilliant blonde locks and dyed her hair black.

"Your name is Mary Alice Brandon now," they told her. They made her repeat it back. Over and over and over again. Over and over as if these simple words could erase what she had done. Erase who she was.

They couldn't. Nothing could.

"You've got no right to grow here," the Dormouse told Alice over dinner one evening.

"Don't talk nonsense," she replied, mentally adding the bratty little Dormouse to her to-do list.

"I'll not have that tone in my house," scolded the Mad Hatter, barely hiding his contempt for the small girl.

"More tea?" The March Hare chimed, even though there was no tea to begin with.

"We're _all_ mad here," Alice reiterated as she stomped off. Blood boiling in her ears.

Once in the relative safety of her room she flopped onto her bed.

"I don't understand why they sent me here," she cried. But she picked herself up and reasoned, "What does it matter where my body happens to be, my mind goes on working."

"Here, here!" Toasted the Caterpillar.

"You know," the White Rabbit told her. "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it."

"And perhaps the moral here coincidences with the need for more blood," remarked the Caterpillar.

"Surely, the King and Queen will make lovely additions to our collection." The Cat said.

"The Mad Hatter, March Hare and Dormouse, as well." The Rabbit agreed.

Alice concurred, but she was far from stupid. She had been caught once and had decided to never be caught again. She knew one thing for sure, she would have to plan this carefully.

The first thing she did was make a list.

1. Dormouse

2. Mad Hatter

3. March Hare

4. The Queen

5. The King

Her beloved hatchet, would be saved for the King and Queen, but how to get rid of the rest?

As luck would have it, the Mad Hatter had quite the library. Herbs and Healing. Cures and Countermeasures. Potions and Poisons.

Perfect.

She sneaked the book from the library and hid it under her bed. She read by flashlight each night when the rest of the house succumbed to the sandman.

The words were big and some were hard to understand but as Alice grew older, so did her vocabulary and she stumbled upon her answer, quite by accident, late one evening.

Prussic acid.

According to the book, a small amount in the afternoon tea for several servings and the deed would be accomplished.

But where to get it, for surely, even though she was now ten years old, no druggist would sell something so volatile to a child.

"Thievery, then." The Cheshire Cat explained.

As it turns out, the Cat's suggestions was almost too easy. She slipped the acid into the lining of her dress and bought a candy bar. Smiling easily at the druggist.

It would take just a few more years for everything to be perfect.

The very next afternoon, she started with a small amount in everyone's tea.

"Food poisoning," the doctor assured them.

Alice had learned a great deal of patience by this time, so she waited until they got well, before administering the next dose.

And the next.

Until finally, _finally,_ it was time. She poured the remaining liquid into the tea that evening and sat back as one by one the Dormouse, the March Hare and the Mad Hatter succumbed.

"We must burn the house down!" The Rabbit shouted in her head.

Alice knew it was correct. Gathering matches and gasoline she hastily set to work.

The flames were glorious.

Under the cloak of night, she made her way back to the beginning.

"This must be the wood where things no longer have names. You know," she told her voices, "once upon a time, I was Alice Borden here."

"Yes, yes." They replied. "We remember."

And in fact, the voices may have remembered better than her. Although, it was a very long time ago when they had real names, but the mission was more important than the memories.

Grabbing the now dull hatchet, and slipping it into her satchel, she made her way back to her once-home.

"Alice? Sweet Alice, is that you?" Papa asked, sleepy-eyed.

"Yes, Papa."

"But where are the Brandon's?"

"Do not worry, Papa. You will see them soon. Just go back to sleep. I'll wake you when they arrive."

Of course they would never arrive. Perhaps it was hope that lulled the King back to dreamland.

Alice slipped quietly out of her old house. She took the hatchet from her satchel and went into the tool-shed. The Dormouse reminded it her it was much too dull to accomplish her deeds.

She remembered, for Alice had quite a long memory, the way Papa had taught her to sharpen the blade.

Sneaking back into the house, she committed her final act of beauty.

With her newly sharpened hatchet, she made her way into the house, careful not to wake the sleeping family.

And then the blood bath began. With unabashed vigor, Alice slammed the hatchet into the King and Queen's skulls, taking no time to enjoy her accomplishment. Not yet.

When the handle broke, Alice figured it was enough. She threw the bloody hatchet in the basement and ran. Relishing the screams she heard as the bodies were discovered.

She had walked quite a way when she was stopped.

"Are you hurt dear? What's your name?" A young uniformed man asked her.

Alice took in her disheveled state and giggled. "Mary Alice Brandon," she replied.

"Can you tell me what happened, sweetheart?" Alice swayed on her feet.

"We're all mad here," she answered before finally succumbing to sleep.

When she awoke, everything had changed.

Roughly, white coated men shoved her into a dark pit.

Whether it was the darkness or the drugs that pumped through her system, the voices were silent.

"Either this well is very deep, or I fell very slowly, for I had plenty of time as I went down to look about myself and to wonder what was going to happen next," she thought. "But it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then."

Or was she?

~~fin~~


End file.
